Brooks, Terry - High Druid's Blade - The Defenders of Shannara (9780345540713)

But Leofur had other plans. One fist cocked, she hit the old woman with such a powerful blow that Mischa went limp instantly.

In the next instant the door through which they had escaped from the tunnels burst open, and the black thing that had been tracking them surged through. All three cried out in shock, but it was Leofur who brought up the flash rip and fired into the creature once more, this time knocking it down the walkway into the shadows.

“Run!” she screamed.

They did so, although Chrysallin’s efforts at running were hopeless, and the best they could manage was a fast walk with Grehling supporting her once more. Behind them, Mischa was already stirring and the creature was struggling back into view.

There was no hope for them, Chrysallin realized. No hope at all. They couldn’t run fast enough, they had nowhere to hide, and the weapon Leofur carried—while helpful—would not keep the creature down. She fought to control the fear and despair that swept over her, listening as Grehling asked Leofur, “How many more times can you use that thing?”

“It carried six charges,” she replied. “Two are gone. Got any ideas?”

“Not the airfield. It’s too far!”

“City Watch? There’s a station somewhere close.”

“I know it. We’ll go there. Straight ahead!”

They picked up their pace, down the empty city streets and through the darkness, fear nipping at their heels.

Behind them, Mischa hobbled into view, her face bruised and bloodied, already in pursuit. But as she did so, she was casting anxious glances over her shoulder.

A terrifying struggle was taking place just behind her.

Paxon Leah was at its center. Having separated from Starks, he had raced in the direction of his sister’s scream and arrived just in time to see Chrys and two others—one of whom looked like Grehling—disappear around a corner. An old woman had just scrambled to her feet and was limping after them, but she glanced back and saw him rushing toward her. Slowing momentarily, she gestured at something behind her, called out a few quick words, then continued on.

In the next instant a huge black creature came out of the shadows and lunged toward him.

He reacted instantly, bringing up his sword, calling on its magic, shielding himself as the beast smashed into the shield it formed to protect him. The creature struck with such force that Paxon was knocked backward several steps. But the blow had no effect on the creature, which righted itself and came at him again, this time trying to sidestep the sword and get around whatever magic it was using. Paxon feinted and parried, stepped quickly one way and then another, outmaneuvering his attacker through footwork and anticipation, trying to reach it with his sword. But the creature was canny enough to avoid his efforts, dodging and weaving with each sweep of the blade, studying Paxon’s defenses as it did so, looking for a weakness.

After several tries, it found one. It dropped flat and with one long arm swept Paxon’s feet out from under him. He dropped backward, just managing to keep his protection intact as the creature swarmed on top of him, first blocking its efforts and then, with a surge of energy, throwing it backward and away.

Dropping the shield, he rolled to his knees and stood as the black thing launched a fresh assault. But this time, he centered the magic in the sword itself, turning the sharp edge into the creature as it tore at him. The blade had a razor’s edge, and abetted by the magic, it sliced off both clawed hands as the attacker closed in.

Paxon stepped away, stunned by what he had done. The creature looked at its severed wrists, but it made no sound. Its face was impossible to read. No blood came from the wounds. It stood there, seemingly bewildered. Then, slowly, impossibly, the wounds began to close, and the blunt, ragged ends to re-form. New hands appeared, growing out of the wounds left where the old hands had been cut off, and they were shaped exactly the same.

The creature waited until it was completely whole again, then slowly approached Paxon once more. For the first time, Paxon was uncertain. He wished Starks were with him. The Druid would know what to do about something like this—something that clearly involved the use of magic. But Starks was gone, and he was alone. He would have to figure this out himself because if he didn’t …

There wasn’t time to finish the thought because the creature was on him once more, this time trying to knock the sword from his hands. Quicker than thought the clawed hands got past his shield and tore at his wrists. He only barely managed to hang on, using the sword to hack at the creature’s head. The blade slipped sideways, partially blocked by a sudden arm swing against the flat side, but the edge bit deep into the creature’s shoulder and lodged there.

Frantically, Paxon fought to free it. The creature was ripping at him, and only the thinnest of shields was keeping it from tearing him apart. He felt himself beginning to panic as they surged back and forth, and he knew if he gave in to it he was finished. He screamed at the creature as a way of focusing the magic, as a means of strengthening his determination. He put everything he had into the effort, fighting harder to yank the blade loose.

But the Sword of Leah was wedged tightly in place in the creature’s body, and no amount of effort would free it.

It was his training that saved him. Oost Mondara had taught him to always take the path of least resistance, to remember that when one thing failed to work it simply meant you should do the opposite. Don’t ever force a result; take a different approach. So instead of continuing the struggle to break free of his adversary, Paxon Leah channeled the blade’s magic not into escape, but into attack, forcing the blade in deeper. The creature jerked and heaved its body immediately in response, a clear indication that it was in trouble. It stopped trying to get at Paxon and turned its attention to the blade instead, trying to wrench it free.

Paxon pressed his attack, going right at the creature, forcing it back, riding it to the ground. The creature writhed and struggled, and the sword blade bit deeper into its body, sinking in almost to the hilt. How the creature could still be alive was troubling, but Paxon was determined to end it here.

Then the creature gave a mighty heave of its body, and the blade wrenched loose at last.

Paxon straightened and went after the creature in a rush. Down came the Sword of Leah in a series of quick, fluid strikes that relied as much on Paxon’s training as on the weapon’s magic. The creature absorbed blow after blow, struggling to rise, but unable to fight its way clear of the blade. Paxon did not let up, attacking with renewed purpose as pieces of the creature separated from its body. It was thrashing wildly now, still without making a sound or shedding a drop of blood, its distress evident from its desperate efforts to break free.

Finally, the Highlander managed to damage both the creature’s arms sufficiently that it could no longer defend itself, and with one mighty swing he took off its head. At once, it went limp, its head rolling slowly away on the rough surface of the street.

Wounded and bleeding, Paxon stood there waiting for it to re-form. But this time there was no recovery. The pieces of its body lay scattered and still in the lamplight and shadows, and the only sound in the aftermath was Paxon’s labored breathing.

Not all that far away, Chrysallin Leah had fallen to her knees and was struggling to rise. “I can’t go on!” she gasped.

Grehling pulled on her shoulders and arms, trying to get her back up. “You have to! She’s coming!”

Chrysallin was terrified. It was clear to the boy that her strength was gone, her body drained of whatever energy she had possessed earlier. Even her fear, as intense as it was, was not enough.